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@selowyn
View from Neuschwanstein Castle

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A Knights Dress by Frieda Lepold

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Zuhair Murad | Spring/Summer 2026 Couture
Light's Hope
[Contains spoilers for the Midnight: Arator's Journey questline]
The confessor arrived at Light’s Hope later in the week than she’d expected. Travel had been hindered by need to circumvent the ever-encroaching Lightbloom, an unexpected void incursion, and twice her caravan had stopped to assist other travelers with cultist attacks. Quel’thalas’ peace was once again marred by invaders and strife.
Wonderlight Ball, 2024

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Hang My Head, Drown My Fear, Til You All Just Disappear epilogue
Despite all their preparations, suddenly her Shadow absconded. A brow quirked in concern. Malek could be a coward, but generally had a sixth sense regarding when the tide turned against his favor.
A tight hold on her wrist and a low, savage whisper. “We are leaving, High Priestess,” Fanotheril hissed.
Dark Confessor Sorrowhawk gazed thoughtfully up at the eclipse once more. It was so majestic, the blood in her veins humming with the gravity of the coalescing power at her back. “But our purpose,” she intoned.
A huff of annoyance. A blur of movement as she is forcibly extricated from her vantage point. The dark pines of the northern Ghostlands gave way to full-on void and she de-materialized with a shove.
Hang My Head, Drown My Fear, Til You All Just Disappear
Thunder reverberated. A storm was brewing, one which filled the air with anticipation. She was holding her breath, gloved fingers tightening around the slack strap of leather in their grip. Her companion smiled wistfully, nodding as though to remind her not only to take breath but to commit this moment to memory.
Oh, she would. The scent of distant campfires, the echo of the lumberjacks plying their trade downriver. The thick canopy of woodland, swathes of redwood and cedar branches heavy and tall. Sweeping wind tracing through the boughs. The ever-present tinge of chill in the air, the canary yellow of the little flowers gracing swells of hillocks.
Deep blue eyes, enigmatic and decidedly un-steely today...
The thunder intensified, pounding inexorably forward. Tearing her gaze away from his, focus shifted to the source of the sound. ‘Twasn’t in the sky, but rather the crest of the hill at the edge of the valley; and as hoped, the group of magnificent creatures crested, galloping past in a gallant procession. Distantly, a few cheers rose upon the air from the Westfall Brigade Encampment as the mustangs flooded the valley with their noble energy.
Brown, black, white, spotted and speckled, snorting and proud. Selowyn watched the horses with glee as a wide grin blossomed on her face. She felt young and hopeful again. The world was suddenly a wild and wider place, reins falling slack from her hands as she clapped and gripped them beneath her chin in rapt attention.
The alpha mare, chocolate brown and brooding; and her consort, a huge piebald stallion with a white face and piercing eyes, turned the herd so they lingered in the valley a bit longer, gifting the pair a good show before shifting as one and making their way toward the opposing horizon.
The thunder diminished and the mustangs were gone as swiftly as they had appeared. Selowyn’s placid charger whinnied his goodbyes as she herself sighed contentedly. Turning in her saddle, inhaling with excited commentary...she realized her companion had never stopped looking at her; content to observe her reaction and delighting in it, in his quiet way.
Color rose in her cheeks as she swallowed, neither marring the moment with words. In unspoken agreement they moved on down the winding road, bittersweet nostalgia sharing space with nascent hope.
* * * * *
Inhaling the bracing scent of pine, with cracked eye-slit she acknowledged it was still dark. Not quite time to get up. Musing lazily, today she would surprise him with a fire and some pre-dawn northerly stargazing; perhaps catch a fleeting glimpse of the aurora, maybe finish off that Dalaran red and briney hardcheese from her pack.
But first things first. Food, drink and stars, as welcome as they are, were not the only cravings to be slaked.
Reaching out, fingers quested. For that bulky human body, scarred and calloused, carved by war. The mortal coil of an avowed protector, matched with a never-ceasing mind of tactician’s stoicism. Trust grown of shared experiences bred a special knowing in the ways of soothing his ruffled feathers, beyond that of just a confidante. They had quickly grown close. He thawed her frozen heart, and in turn she liked to believe she had mended his broken one.
And so, she was eminently fond of tending to him in those all-too-rare, secret moments of stolen peace; quelling that razor-sharp mind with needed respite of soft focus and ardent desire by way of butterfly fingertips, earnest longing, soft lips and whispered confessions.
A fleeting moment, and there was warmth. At last...just a taste. Striking, welcome contrast to the ever present chill, everything so cold, so stark, so bleak…his smile, oh how it made her chest ache. Turning toward him, please, save me from this…
. . . . . . And her eyes fully opened to the grim reality of spilling ink, void everywhere; filling her vision, her mind, her soul. Stealing him away, stealing the warmth, stealing her joy. All was filled with shadows and darkness. Red mist filled her mind, greedy and pilfering. For the first time in many moons, she had had a peaceful sleep awash in the warmth of memories like sun-touched sand, only to awaken once again in a cold, dark hourglass. Those fragments of him adhered to her skin like diamond dust. She roused gingerly, but with every move he fell from her, piece by piece, down into an abyss.
So close, so far.
“I’m running low on your sand,” she murmured sadly with the last of her sleepiness. Stirring, she sat up upon a bed of furs in vast troll ruins in the dense Amani forest of softwood and voodoo. Quiet music greets her, discordant in the atmosphere of ruin, domination and death. She wants to cry, but she does not. Cannot.
“What was that, High Priestess? Something about sand?” A tenor voice, sandy and slightly grating with an ever-present edge of threat. Malek is there, sitting on a box whilst idly strumming his harp. She eyes him wearily.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he continues, head canting, pale hair shifting to cover a crimson eye. “A funny thing, that. Still clinging to the habit of sleep. Why do you bother?”
“Don’t question me, whelp,” she snarls, taking her frustration out on him as she takes to her feet, adjusting her robes as she begins to survey the view from atop her pyramid.
He has the gall to laugh. “Oh please, Selowyn, don’t start with that, with me.”
There’s that tendency to address her informally, and that slice of threat. He practically flexes his chitinous forearms at her as he strums. “I’m all you have left. Isn’t it pathetic?” The music suddenly ceased as the harp vanished with its owner, who becomes incorporeal and floats around her, a dark mist with swirling red eyes. “Isn’t it, fitting?” the mist rasps.
She shivers. Her sadness is palpable, a shroud which emanates in waves from her form. The rogue revels in it, giving and taking power to and from his mistress in the mysterious dance macabre of voidal tides. Sighing, she knows he is right and holds out a hand, fingers splayed for him to weave betwixt as she approaches her vantage point.
“I dreamed, Malek. I dreamed of the Commander. I’d nearly forgotten him, until he called out to me in the cavern, and then again at the Sunwell. He reminded me of something, I can’t quite recall... So yes, I chose to sleep, perchance to dream. There was a memory of a place important to both of us... It’s so hard to tell anymore though.” A deep breath, a guttural sigh. “I’m holding what is left of us so tightly in my fists. All for nothing, it seems!”
As though to punctuate her point, Malek ceases weaving through her fingers and chooses to dramatically slide through them like sand, falling in slow motion to pile upon the stone at their feet.
She peers down at him with a frown, then up at the black-hole sun above. It does not burn her eyes. Her essence is connected to the eclipse in ways even she cannot fathom. “I can feel the presence of the god of Death in my disillusioned state and he’s laughing at my misfortune. And you’re laughing too?”
The misty presence gathered itself and seemed to pause, floating upwards to brush her cheek for the briefest of moments. “No. I’m not laughing, at that.” Manifesting in the flesh once more, Malek takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before tugging her forward. “He’s a good man. But we have work to do.”
“So we do,” she replied. Voice tinny, resolute, and hollow.
As one, the pair descended the pyramid.
Live Like Legends - Ruelle

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by Micheli Fernandes
Nowergian Wood by Haruki Murakami.